Page 61 of Jewel of the Assassin
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He waves a ladle. “I’ll fetch the paddle!”
ROMAN
Iguide Valentina through the eastern corridor, where warm light spills from the swinging doors of the kitchen. The scents of garlic, butter, and seasonings hit us first. She perks up, nose twitching, eyes curious.
The kitchen is alive with the sounds of pans simmering with oil and butter, knives on wooden boards, mechanical whirls, and the stacking of porcelain plates.
In the center of it all is Emilian.
Our head chef moves like a man who’s fought in a hundred kitchens and survived. Wiry and stooped slightly with age, he’s all sharp angles and sinew. His chef whites are pristine but rolled at the forearms, revealing a full sleeve of faded tattoos—some culinary, some Cyrillic, and a few only decipherable if you’ve ever served in a now-defunct Soviet intelligence unit. One depicts a KGB insignia made of knives. Another is a cat smoking a cigarette.
He moves with obsessive precision, tasting a sauce andcorrecting a garnish. A cat-shaped timer ticks behind him. His feline obsession is very real, and frankly, the only soft part about him that’s publicly acceptable. He has five well-pampered cats kept in his wing of the manor.
“Emilian,” I announce as I step into his dominion, one hand resting on the small of Valentina’s back.
He doesn’t even turn. “Ack, what do you want, Roman?” His voice is a sharp crack of Russian syllables wrapped in impatience. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of divine intervention? These fools tried to over-reduce the béarnaise.” He finally spins around and levels me with a narrow-eyed stare. “You didn’t bring another‘urgent request,’did you?”
Valentina’s brows lift in amusement.
“I’m re-introducing you to my wife,” I reply smoothly. “Not sending you into cardiac arrest. She’s curious,” I say simply.
Emilian wipes his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder and approaches. “Of course she is. She always is.” Then he blinks and shifts slightly, giving Valentina a small, understanding smile. “But you are welcome to assume we’ve never met,dorogaya,if that’s more comfortable. I’ll play along. Pretend I didn’t catch you sampling honeycomb straight from the tray before your untimely accident. Andyou.You’re the one from last week, aren’t you?”
Valentina blinks. “Me?”
“That order. The caviar on warm buttered blini, with the sour cream from the cows inSpa Heaven,and the sirniki with golden honey, and—” he jabs the air with a wooden spoon—“kopi luwak!”
He makes a dramaticpahnoise and looks to the heavens, offended but not truly mad.
Valentina’s face flames. “That…might have been me.”
I glance down to see her biting her lip, embarrassed and adorable. I should’ve known she’d blush.
Emilian throws up both hands. “Of course it was. I should have known. ‘Only two types of people order this kind of breakfast:billionaires with no taste buds, or women who know exactly what they’re worth.’”
Valentina touches her mouth, laughing. “I just wanted to see if the menu lived up to the manor.”
He leans closer, conspiratorial now, setting the spoon down. “It did, didn’t it?”
She nods, still laughing.
“Good. Then it was worth it. But do not expect that every morning! I am a genius, not a machine.”
“More like a genius with the personality of a Soviet-era espresso machine,” I mutter.
He swats a hand in my direction. “You’re still not banned from my kitchen, but keep pushing and I’ll reconsider.”
Valentina shoots me a mock-glare, but there’s warm amusement behind her eyes. Radiant in her intrigue.
And Emilian, for all his prickly demeanor, knows exactly how to play the part. He never needs reminders. He never misses a beat.
“Let me know if her Highness would like her eggs a particular way,” he calls out, already sliding back into his rhythm. “Or maybe she’s craving something new. Like the blood of my patience.”
Valentina leans into me, whispering, “Does he always talk like that?”
“Only when he likes someone.”
